Hanna was a wimp.

Hurricane Hanna was a bust! We spent Friday morning moving stuff inside the garage like the grill and lawn furniture and all that crap. I was all proud that I had stocked up on water and candles and stuff too. We were getting pretty excited because the more the afternoon pressed on, the more it looked like we were going to get hit and morbidly enough, we were kind of excited about the thrill of it. I mean, we never hoped for anything terrible to happen, but we wanted some fright-factor like having to hide in the closet or something! But, it was not to be. The hurricane made a sharp right turn at the very last minute and the most we ever got from it was a heavyish drizzle. Boo. We never even heard a thunder clap! Double Boo.

Saturday, of course, turned out to be beautiful and we took the opportunity to tool around Charleston. We didn't do anything much. We were just four farts in the wind and went where ever we the breeze blew us. It was nice having fun out and about. I wish we had as good of shopping and restaurants around here as there are up there! Sunday we ran errands and ate a lot. I got so much organizing done around the house when we were preparing for that stupid hurricane. I was totally proud of myself and did things I had been procrastinating on since we moved into this house almost four years ago!

Wyatt and his huge belly after he gorged himself at IHOP.

The kids have been up to no good, as always! Their newest fascination is drawing with "ga-gok" (chalk) all over the front porch and they demand to do at least a couple times a day. I'm happy they like drawing so much. It tugs on my art-strings.

Today, Wyatt's dirty diaper exploded on my couch, etc. And when I say exploded, I mean that colonic cannonball snuck it's way past the crotch, down the thigh, and all the way to the dude's knee leaving thick skid marks on everything in my living room. I had been blissfully cleaning away in the kitchen without realizing that Wyatt had taken his painting skills to a whole other level. It made me go from gleefully chipper to steaming pissed off in 0.4 seconds. I don't do poop. Poop is gross. Poop makes me tremble with anxiety when it veers away from it's appropriate landing spots. Never mind the fact that I start convulsing. In fact, I hate it so much that I rarely clean the toilets. Yummy, right?!?! Needless to say, a greater part of the afternoon was spent disinfecting the hell out of anything disinfectable. The End.

Terrorizing the seagulls